It has to be wrong. All of this. All of him. That somehow he's allowed this at all.
The push of Danny's hands, the way his back his the bed, making it bounce, and the solid weight that settles itself across his hips and thigh, weight on top and constriction friction on the sides. Thing's that feel too good to be anything he deserves -- while he's reaching out, even in rejection of his own thoughts, hands to find Danny's side, the ladder of his ribs, all the way to the crease between his hip and bent thighs -- when he was just trying to break it.
When. God. The world slashes itself up, ribbons and heat, his hands tightening hard on Danny's hips when Danny's mouth starts on his skin. The run of his jaw and the side of his neck. Soft, but hard lips, and the prickle of a just beginning stubble adding sharps of sensation to everything. It's wrong. It has to be wrong. But he doesn't want to care. About the world. Fairness. Right. Wrong.
Not about anything but Danny, and how true, blisteringly base and shameless and fiercely true that's been for so long.
Not with Danny's mouth at his skin, like it's a hand on his heart ratcheting up his pulse until it's pounding deafening in his ears and pulse points, and somehow one of his hands isn't on Danny's hip, because there's hair between his fingers, and he's pushing Danny into him even more. Because it already feels like fire lapping at him, and he just wants to be burned by it. Like he could offer Danny a visible proof of the mark, or make the mark of a mark, that has always already been there.
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It has to be wrong. All of this. All of him. That somehow he's allowed this at all.
The push of Danny's hands, the way his back his the bed, making it bounce, and the solid weight that settles itself across his hips and thigh, weight on top and constriction friction on the sides. Thing's that feel too good to be anything he deserves -- while he's reaching out, even in rejection of his own thoughts, hands to find Danny's side, the ladder of his ribs, all the way to the crease between his hip and bent thighs -- when he was just trying to break it.
When. God. The world slashes itself up, ribbons and heat, his hands tightening hard on Danny's hips when Danny's mouth starts on his skin. The run of his jaw and the side of his neck. Soft, but hard lips, and the prickle of a just beginning stubble adding sharps of sensation to everything. It's wrong. It has to be wrong. But he doesn't want to care. About the world. Fairness. Right. Wrong.
Not about anything but Danny, and how true, blisteringly base and shameless and fiercely true that's been for so long.
Not with Danny's mouth at his skin, like it's a hand on his heart ratcheting up his pulse until it's pounding deafening in his ears and pulse points, and somehow one of his hands isn't on Danny's hip, because there's hair between his fingers, and he's pushing Danny into him even more. Because it already feels like fire lapping at him, and he just wants to be burned by it. Like he could offer Danny a visible proof of the mark, or make the mark of a mark, that has always already been there.